


Journaling

by Gort



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gort/pseuds/Gort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike receives something unexpected from Rome. Post BtVS Season 7. AtS Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journaling

“Something came for you.” Angel handed him a package and sipped from a mug that Spike could smell contained the good stuff. Almost all otter in that one, he thought, disgruntled. Harmony always made his blood with barely a hint of it. Knew how to hold a grudge, that one.

Spike picked up the package and shook it. Nothing. He handed it back to Angel. “You open it.”

Angel held up a hand and backed away. “Uh, no. Last time I ended up with _you_. I can’t imagine anything worse, but I’m not pressing my luck.”

Spike rolled his eyes and shook the package again. “I’ve not had great luck myself, you know.”

Angel stared down into his blood, brooding like the soulful, annoying bastard he was. “It’s from Rome.”

Spike blinked and looked at the postmark. Sodding hell. “Thanks.” He left Angel’s office.

“Spike,” Wesley acknowledged as they passed in the hall. Spike grunted and barged into an empty conference room. He set the package down on the table and stared at it. It still didn’t tell him anything. Spike narrowed his eyes and glared. The plain brown paper did not seem intimidated.  Finally, he shrugged and tore it open, wincing as the contents were exposed and then…still nothing.

Spike opened one eye. An envelope slithered out of the torn paper. He frowned and removed the rest of the packaging, revealing what looked like a journal of some kind. It was black and looked to be real leather. Just the kind of journal he would have liked, if he went in for that sort of thing. The envelope was pink with butterflies on it. What the bloody hell was this, fan mail?

Spike smirked and picked up the envelope. Well, well. Angel wasn’t the only champion now, was he? The brooding wanker got a whole _law firm._ Why shouldn’t he get his rewards as well? Spike preened a bit in the empty room, holding the girly envelope in his hand. Well then, let’s see who was fawning over the resurrected William the Bloody.

Spike tore into the pink paper and extracted a card covered in the same butterflies that had graced the envelope. He curled his lip at it before opening the stiff, folded paper.

_Spike,_

_Just so you know, I’m still totally mad at you. Andrew didn’t tell, by the way, but we have some really nosy neighbors. I can’t BELIEVE you   came all the way to Rome and didn’t TELL HER you were ALIVE you ASS! Andrew seems to think that maybe you’re all confused or something. He’s also an ASS. But maybe he’s right. So fine, you get the benefit of the doubt THIS TIME. This is her journal. Willow made her keep it after she got kind of…stuck in the anger phase of grief. READ IT. And if you still want to play dead, well, you’ll probably wish you were when she finds out you’re not._

_Dawn_

_P.S. READ IT YOU ASS_

Spike stared the message for a long time. He read it over and over and it still made absolutely no sense. Why the _hell_ was Dawn sending him this? His eyed the journal with trepidation. It had been over. He’d _died_. He’d been the big, bloody hero, made her proud enough to gift him with the words he’d always wanted to hear from her. How could he top that?

Spike ran his fingers over the leather cover of the journal. Now that he looked he could see the fine cracking along the spine, the faint wear marks on the edges. If it was her journal, she’d certainly been using it. He couldn’t imagine it though; she’d never been much of a writer. Or a talker, he remembered. smiling a little. He lifted the cover just enough to expose the creamy pages inside before slamming it shut again.

He was breathing, he realized, hard and fast. If he’d needed to actually breathe he’d probably be light-headed. He’d thought he was _past_ this, this absolute, all-consuming need to be close to her again. It had burned in him so brightly when he’d first come back, but of course he hadn’t been able to leave the bleeding building. As the months passed the flame had been tempered and by the time he was whole again, well, he realized he wasn’t sure he wanted to see the love he last remembered in her eyes reduced to mere kindness.

The walls were hemming him in, he realized. He needed out. He carefully tucked the card into the journal and walked out of the conference room. Something was buzzing in his ears and he would swear he could _smell_ her. Hints of vanilla and something he never could name. He saw Harmony’s mouth moving as he got on the elevator, but he didn’t hear a word she said.

***

He’d put it off as long as he could. He’d gotten some blood, several bottles of his good friend Jack, and an entire carton of smokes. The journal stared at him from the coffee table. He stared back, still unsure. Dawn seemed to think he needed to read it, but did he, really? He remembered again that look she’d given him, just before he’d burned to death. The one he would carry in his heart until he died. Again.

Spike wondered why she’d picked this particular journal. She’d always been more fashionable than practical and this book was almost…stodgy, with its tiny stitching and dark red, ribbon bookmark. He would have liked it, had it actually been a present for him.

He poured himself a mug of whiskey and wiped a hand over his face before picking up the journal again. If he could sweat, he would be absolutely dripping. He took a deep breath and opened the cover. Spike realized his eyes were closed, so he forced one open. The page in front of him was swimming. He slammed the book closed and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

Fortified, he flipped the cover open with a flourish and frowned, tilting his head…was that? He picked up the book and turned it sideways, one eyebrow rising. Well, Dawn had said she’d been stuck in the anger phase. He frowned and tried to make sense of her terrible drawings. That one was supposed to be her, he was almost sure. The hair was lovingly drawn, and that one, that one was _him_. His little figure had a coat, fangs, and some stunningly terrible hair. She was staking him.

Spike slammed the book closed and picked up his mug.

Half a bottle later he opened it again. Yep, still staking him, right in the heart. Stick figure her was a righteous bitch. The one next to it looked like maybe a decapitation. Vicious little thing, she was. Spike turned the page. Ah, sure, there he was being run over by a poorly rendered bus. And falling off a cliff. And possibly drowning? Or in space, he couldn’t be sure. She did remember vampires didn’t need to breathe, didn’t she?

There were pages of them, him dying over and over, her killing him, demons eating him, what looked like a terrible rendition of Angelus ripping out his heart. All drawn in black ink, the lines almost gouged into the pages. Angry, Dawn had said. _Rage_ , the pages told him.

When he finally reached a page with actual words he was exhausted. He’d gone thought two packs of cigarettes and a bottle and a half of whiskey. He carefully marked the page with the red ribbon and closed the book, pressing his palm flat against the cover. He could almost feel her under his hand. Christ, he missed her. He wished things could have been different.

Spike stumbled to bed, leaving the journal in the living room. It wasn’t until he woke up the next day that he realized something.

Absolutely none of the drawings showed him burning. She’d never set him on fire.

***

Spike puttered in the kitchenette for as long as he could stand it before flopping back on the couch again and lighting a cigarette. He eyed the journal and turned on the telly instead. That distracted him for about a minute and half before he shut it off. He picked up the book and turned to the page he’d marked the night before.

_Find Vengeance demon ~~. Force it to grant a wish that has nothing to do with vengeance~~. Or come up with a reason that it is vengeance. Maybe against Robin? Might work._

_Talk to the coven about a Resurrection spell without them finding out it’s a resurrection spell. Learn magic? Piss off Willow._

Spike frowned at the words. This was the weirdest list he’d ever seen. Also, what the hell had Robin done to her? He thought that git was all about the dark-haired, crazy Slayer. Spike growled low in his throat. Maybe he’d take a few days to find that wanker and kill him after he was done reading this. He turned the page.

_Talk to Anya Giles about alternate dimensions. Maybe there’s another one, somewhere, somehow and I can bring that one home._

Spike furrowed his brow and lit another cigarette. Christ, she was hard enough to suss out in person. Reading her scattered thoughts was like trying to make sense of Jim Morrison’s lyrics.

The next several pages were the same. A few sentences about strange phenomena and magic and bringing something home. It wasn’t until one involving poison frogs found only in South America followed by some convoluted scheme to kidnap a mysterious ‘her’ that was obviously a vampire that it hit him.

She was writing about _him_. She was writing down ways to bring him back. _She had wanted him back._

Spike dropped the book on the table like it burned him. He got up, realizing he was breathing again, and forced himself to stop. The sun was setting outside. He poured himself a mug of whiskey and tossed it back in one swallow, refilling it immediately.

He tried to wrap his brain around this new development. Maybe she was just feeling guilty about his death, even if it had been done willingly. She always did have a skewed sense of responsibility for things she felt she should have been able to prevent, like she was the only one who got to sacrifice herself for the greater good. Spike snorted under his breath while he heated up some blood to thin the whiskey humming through his veins.

The phone rang, startling him. He fumbled with the stupidly tiny piece of electronic crap for a moment before answering it. “What?”

“Angel said you’d gotten a package.”

It was Wesley. Spike rolled his eyes. Ponce was a lot less annoying than he remembered, but the Watcher inside him was as nosey as ever. “Did,” Spike said. “It’s personal.”

“Ah.” Wesley was silent for a moment. “Will you be coming in tomorrow? There are some things I wanted to-”

“No.” Spike said, irritated. He sniffed the blood and made a face before gulping it down and shuddering. “I’m busy. Go annoy Captain Forehead.” He hung up without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone into a nearby drawer.

He picked up his mug of whiskey, lit a cigarette, and turned back to the beginning of the list. Now that he knew what it was about, things made a lot more sense. He read through the pages more slowly this time.

_Figure out how to open a portal. Can you choose a specific moment? Take the damn amulet away and drop it into the Pacific. Smash it into a thousand pieces. Let Angel wear it._

Spike stared at those words for a long time. She’d crossed it out violently, but he could still make it out. He sipped his whiskey, feeling more than just the warmth of alcohol curling through him. She really had taken it hard, his lovely girl. He took a moment to appreciate she’d even _thought_ about trading Angel’s life for his, even if she’d obviously not meant it.

Spike remembered those last few nights he’d spent with her, the thousands of minutes he’d regretted not taking advantage of the moment he started to burn. He knew he’d never be worthy of her, but Christ, he’d wanted so badly to try. That was the problem with immortality, he mused. You always thought you’d have forever, right up until the second you didn’t.

He was rubbing his fingers against the raised ridges of his burned palm, he realized suddenly. He wasn’t sure why it had scarred when so few of his injuries did. Even his ones that wrapped around his wrists were nearly invisible now. He wondered if she’d been burned too. He liked that it remained. It was a tangible reminder of the moment his life had _meant_ something. And that she’d been there to see it.

Spike idly read through a few more of her schemes, realizing she was running out of ideas around the time she started rambling about slingshots and space travel and something about whales. That one sounded vaguely familiar in a weird, niggling memory kind of way.

There were some blank pages after the last one, and he thought for a moment that was it. He was oddly disappointed. Then he turned another page and there it was. His _name_.

_Spike_

Spike took a breath and traced the lines her pen made on the page. It was written at the top as though it had been the beginning of something. The ink wasn’t as dark as the earlier drawings. She was less angry now. The page under his hand wasn’t entirely flat. It had some wrinkles and pulls on it. He looked at it closely. No way to tell what had done the damage.

His name was the only thing on the entire page.

Spike dug another pack of smokes out of the carton and realized he was running low already. He should probably crack open a window before someone thought the building was burning down. He carefully marked the page he was on and set the book on the table. He was almost out of whiskey too. He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door, pausing at the last moment to grab the journal and slip it into his pocket. Right now it was his, and he would keep it safe for her.

***

Spike returned to his apartment faster than he’d thought possible. The book was heavy against his thigh, hurrying him along. He was almost halfway through it now, although there was no way to know if she’d actually filled it. He couldn’t bring himself to peek at the last page. He would read it until it was finished, and that was what mattered.

He tossed the carton of smokes on the coffee table and dropped the whiskey next to it. He thought for a second he could hear muffled ringing, but he ignored it.

He pulled out the book and tucked it under his arm as he poured himself another drink before settling back onto the couch. Back to his girl. Even if she’d never actually been his, he’d always been hers and that had to count for something.

He opened the book and stared at his name again, shining up at him from the page. She’d written it down. It was proof that she’d been thinking about him. He touched the letters again, gently. He hadn’t seen a lot of her writing. She wasn’t big on notes or letters. Her world was far removed from the one he’d been alive in. Back then nearly everything had been written down. He missed it sometimes, the tangible lines of communication that couldn’t be easily erased or forgotten.

She’d written him exactly one note, before he’d burned. He still remembered every word, even if it hadn’t survived his return.

_I know what I have to do. Hopefully by tonight I’ll be able to tell you and the others all about it._

_\- Buffy_

_Thank you_

The thank you at the bottom of the page had been his favorite part. It was messier that the rest, more of an afterthought, but it still made his heart glow a little. He’d searched his pockets for days after he’d become solid again, hoping maybe eventually it would turn up where he had left it. It never had.

Spike refocused on the page under his fingers and reluctantly flipped to the next one. He blinked, staring at his name again. It was in the same place as the first, on the top of the page like more was coming, but only blank space showed underneath.

He flipped through a few more pages. His name was at the top of all of them, stark and alone. Her handwriting started improving, the letters getting a little more curved, smoothing out. She’d even written it in proper cursive once before changing to a mixture of print and cursive. He liked the long curves of her printed S better. She apparently had too.

He stopped at a page that finally had more just his name, eyes hungrily eating up her words, until he realized it _was_ just his name again, over and over. There was _Spike_ and then, halfway down, somewhere in the middle, _William_ repeated a few times before changing back again.

Spike stared at the page. He had no idea what any of it meant, or if it even meant _anything_. His chest ached. He wished he could ask her but that would complicate his life and hers and he’d just make a mess of everything again. He pressed his hand flat on the page like he could absorb whatever she’d been feeling when she wrote it. Nothing.

Spike lit a cigarette before turning the page. If his heart could beat it would have skipped at that moment.

_Spike_

At the top, just like all the others, but under it, more glorious words.

_I was in Oxford today. Someone told me once it might have been where you went to school. (You can’t fool me, you know, you were always smarter than you pretended). I sat on a bench by the river. There was a sign on it that said it had been there for longer than Sunnydale was a town. Did you ever sit there? I miss you._

Spike felt his breath catch in his throat. Oh. This was worth burning a million times over. She’d missed him, she said. He almost didn’t care that the bloody Watcher’s Council couldn’t be bothered to get his Alma Mater right. She’d been thinking about him and that was what counted.

He topped off his whiskey and turned the page.

_Spike_

_Remember that time you told me about Spain? I think maybe I was pretending to be asleep, but I remember you told me about the narrow streets and the flowers and the balconies. It’s just like that, but better, like you said. I had some really good wine. I think you would have liked it. I miss you._

He smiled a little. She had been listening. It was always a tossup back then. She’d been so volatile that sometimes his silence would set her off almost as quickly as his words. Eventually he’d just started filling the time between bouts of exquisite sex with stories of the places he’d been, things he’d seen. He was almost surprised she remembered any of it.

Spike let his hand skim over the page again. He wondered where else she’d gone between Sunnydale and Rome. She’d have stories now too. Stories he wasn’t there to hear, that he wasn’t a part of. It hurt. He turned the page.

_Spike_

_You’re a fucking liar. You’re a liar and a jerk and you’re never coming back and I hate you for that. I hope you can see this where you are, you lying bastard._

Spike squinted at some tiny, cramped writing at the bottom of the page under all the slanted, jagged lines of her angry words.

_I still miss you, jerk_

Spike grinned widely. That was his girl. Bright and fiery and beautiful and blunt, even when he wasn’t around to hear it.

There were more. Sometimes she wrote about old memories and sometimes she only talked about new places she’d seen. She always wrote that she missed him, on every page. Her words both hurt and soothed, settling like a blanket over his skin.

The letters started getting shorter and shorter and his heart clenched. This was it then, when she started to get over it. Get over _him_ , the guilt she’d carried. She’d moved on already, he knew that. He’d seen her dancing that night with the bloody _Immortal_ of all creatures, and maybe this was why he hadn’t wanted to skip to the end. If he closed the book now he could pretend she’d never stopped writing her little letters to him at all.

Spike could feel the sun burning bright outside the building.

He got up and opened another bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a mug. He leaned a hip against the counter and contemplated the liquid in his glass before curling his lip in disgust. He was acting like a prat. He just needed to get this bloody over with.

He moved purposefully back to the couch, setting his drink down with a thump and picking up the book, still open to the last page he’d read. He turned to the next page.

_I miss you_

That was it, the only words. He flipped through a few more pages. Blank, blank, and blank. He felt his heart sink and he wanted to throw the damn book across the room. He felt like he was burning all over again, all the guilt and anger curdling in his gut. He should have done something before he died. He should have told her he’d come back. He should have gotten off his ass and stopped being a coward but it was _too fucking late._

He flipped all the way to the end. There weren’t many pages she hadn’t used. He was impressed, really. She’d filled almost the whole damn book. He got to the end and started the close it when something caught his eye. He frowned and opened the back cover. There was more, one sentence on the final page. She’d used her good handwriting. And at the bottom, under the words he could hardly begin to comprehend, she wrote:

_Always._

_Love, Buffy._

Spike almost ran into his own front door in his haste to leave the apartment. His phone was ringing uselessly in the drawer again.

***

Spike threw the doors open and knocked over a squat little horned demon coming out. The demon squealed and shrank back from him as Spike shoved past.

Angel looked up in surprise and annoyance. “Where the hell have you been? Wesley has a job for you.”

“Can’t stay.” Spike said breathlessly, trying to keep his voice even. “Need the plane. _Now_.”

Angel lifted his eyebrows. “What? Look, Spike, I know you’re kind of…” He waved a careless hand. “Working for us, but I can’t just _give_ you the plane.”

Spike reached across the desk and grabbed Angel by the collar of his poncy shirt. “Give. Me. The. Plane.” he gritted out. “ _Please_.”

Someone cleared their throat by the door. Angel shoved Spike back and they stood there, glaring at each other. “You smell like a distillery.” Angel said, disgusted. “Go home.”

“Guys?” Fred’s lilting voice startled Spike. He turned to look at her. Fred was watching him sympathetically. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Angel said, still glaring at Spike. “He was just leaving.”

“Please,” Spike asked again desperately.

“Why?” Angel frowned at him.

“Just…please.”

Fred shrugged as she came to stand next to him. “It’s fine, Angel. No one’s using it right now.”

Angel huffed an annoyingly broody sigh. “Fine. Just…don’t touch anything.”

Spike was nearly trembling with relief. “Yeah, okay.” He left without another word.

“That was weird.” Fred said, watching him go. “What happened?”

“He got something.” Angel was frowning after the other vampire. “From Rome.”

Fred’s eyes went wide and she glanced nervously at Angel. “Oh.” Angel didn’t seem to notice her concern.

“Probably from the Rome office.” He said dismissively.

“Sure,” Fred agreed. She started backing out of the room. “I just realized I, um, forgot something.” She ran to intercept Wesley. Angel wasn’t going to be any use at their afternoon meeting, she could tell already. And she had to call Dawn.

***

Spike stared at her door for what felt like forever. He could almost feel the minutes ticking by. The damn sun had been up when he finally arrived so he hadn’t been able to leave the plane for _hours_. He’d read the entire journal again.

He’d memorized the words on the final page. Christ, he hoped she meant them. But then, why wouldn’t she? The book hadn’t been written for anyone but her, and for the ghost he’d been. He straightened his shoulders and knocked on the door.

When he heard footsteps on the other side he almost panicked, his legs twitching toward the stairs. But then the door was opening and light was spilling into the hall and there she was. Her blonde hair was up in a messy topknot and she was dressed casually, like she hadn’t been expecting anyone. He was glad. He hoped she’d staked the damn Immortal.

Her lovely eyes were bigger than he remembered, although that might have been the shock. She stared at him, her mouth partly open. “’Lo, Buffy,” he finally said, his voice hoarse from too many cigarettes and too much whiskey.

She made a strange sound in the back of her throat and slammed the door in his face.

Spike blinked and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Okay, well, that wasn’t quite what he’d expected, but to be fair she’d thought he was still dead. Maybe he should have called. This had seemed like such a good idea when his blood had been mostly alcohol.

He could hear her raspy breathing on the other side of the door. He placed a hand flat on the cheap wood and carefully leaned his head against it. “Buffy?” He said, loud enough so that he knew she could hear him. “Open the door. Please, love.”

He heard something that nearly broke him. A tiny hitching noise that might have been a sob. She hardly ever cried, not even when she’d been kicked out of her own house. He hated it, hated that he was almost the only thing that ever made her cry. He should never have come but it was too late now and leaving would be worse, he was almost sure of it.

 “I…” he stopped, his hand softly stroking the journal in his pocket. He took a deep breath and recited the words on the last page. His voice was stronger now.

He waited, silently leaning against the door. And then, slowly, it opened. Buffy stood there, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. She was trembling. “Spike.” Her voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. It was the least he could offer. He would prostrate himself at her feet later; after he was sure she even wanted to look at him.

She stared at him, eyes locked on his face. He waited. She didn’t move for a long minute and then she blinked at him and took a step back. “Come in, Spike,” she finally whispered. He let out a sigh of relief and crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. “How…?” Her voice trailed off.

This was the part he dreaded most. “The amulet,” he said. “Somehow it…brought me back.” Buffy had her arms crossed, holding herself. He took a deep breath. She deserved to know all of it. “Not long after…after Sunnydale.” He watched the pain flash across her face and wanted to run, wanted to erase ever having come here and hurt her, again.

Buffy’s breath was coming fast and shallow. “You were…you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said desperately. “I tried, at first, but I wasn’t all there, I was a kind of ghost or something. I couldn’t leave the building. And then, after, I thought…I wasn’t sure if you…I’m so sorry.”

She wiped away a stray tear angrily. “What building?”

Spike clenched his jaw for a moment. “Wolfram and Hart.”

She inhaled sharply. “Wolfram and… _Angel knew_?”

Spike nodded, feeling worse every second. This was a terrible mistake. She had been happier, going out and dancing. Moving on like she should.

“I’m going to _kill_ him,” she said fiercely, startling him.

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “For?”

“He _knew_!” Buffy was fuming now. “He _knew_ how much I…” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re alive.” Her eyes were watery again.

Spike nodded cautiously. “As I ever was.”

She let out a little sobbing laugh. “Hi.”

He smiled tentatively. “’Lo.”

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Well, that did it. Spike couldn’t stand it anymore. “I know,” he moved closer, digging into his pocket and pulling out the book. “Dawn sent me this.” He held it out to her.

 Buffy’s face went pale and then she flushed red. She reached out and took it from him, stroking the cover with delicate fingers. “I’m going to kill her.”

Spike almost laughed. “Starting a list, then?”

Buffy looked at him, her lips quirking up a little. “Maybe.”

He reached out and brushed a stray hair back from her beautiful face. Christ, he’d missed her so much. He’s almost forgotten how _alive_ he felt when he was near her. “Am I still on it?”

“Yes,” she whispered, staring at him again. “Right at the top, just like always.”

Spike smiled then. “Glad to hear it, love.”

Buffy smiled too. “When are you going back?” She was clutching the journal in front of her like a protective shield.

Spike shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t really think about it.” She tilted her head, considering him. If his heart could beat it would be hammering in his chest. “Just…needed to see you.”

Buffy looked like she was going to cry again. He bit his lip worriedly. “I…” she glanced down at the book in her hands. “Well, you know.”

Spike took a step closer to her, almost touching her now. “Buffy,” he started, but the words were sticking in his throat.

Buffy let out a breath and suddenly tossed the book onto a nearby chair. “You stupid vampire,” she breathed, “I love you.”

Spike thought his heart might burst. “Oh,” he said, stunned. Buffy reached out and grasped the lapels of his coat. “Buffy, love…” His hands automatically settled around her waist, her shape so familiar.

“Kiss me?”

“Yeah.” And then she was in his arms, her mouth opening under his as he tasted her, her warmth seeping though his thin t-shirt. “Missed you so bloody much,” he murmured against her mouth.

“If you _ever_ do that again, I’m going to kill you for real,” she whispered back.

He chuckled, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “As long as you’re always the last thing I see.”

Buffy gave him a helpless look. “Can you stay?”

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever’s good.” She pulled him in for another long, lingering kiss. “I missed you,” she whispered, pulling back. “Will you say it again?”

He knew what she meant. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it onto the chair next to her journal before sweeping her up. She laughed, cradled there in his arms. “Which way?” He asked. She pointed down the hall and he started in that direction, putting his mouth close to her ear.

“If I were dead and buried and I heard your voice, beneath the sod my heart of dust would still rejoice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Final quote from the movie Roman Holiday.
> 
> Originally written for December 7th: letter writing day and posted at EF.


End file.
